But our unneeded naval chances yet,
Beside all likely letterings surmised,
Broken over rapid lurching archery,
No direction sounded in its sobs.
So hie us truly underneath, perchance,
Od's kitchen!

                           Pray reveal the way to Mars!
No dice! Peel each turnip equally
Between the knees of lacrimation's ken
Dividing yet unwholesome from unsound
O speech, what are love's doubts to thee?
O lemon kin, so sour at last in joy
Why doubt'st thou yet the perjuries of sin?
Now can I do thee anything! But harm,
But mischief, even jealousy forgets
The passing of those sweet untainted hours
Between the sea and sunset, midst the tars
Of sepulchres and granaries. My soul
Will e'er be tortured till resolve is made
By envy now surprising our new sons,
The kingdom's heirs and nuptial hopes, those four
Prevaricate, libido is now grazed
By a quick arrow. Lined along its path
By rays uncurled and loosed from feeling's grasp
By grief. I have no choice but weeping, sorrow
Unrelenting: them who laugh I'll dash
Those jackanapes to death upon the Rock,
As I am bound to live, and sorrow's sore.
Go, then, dull melancholy, clear my path
Although I'll walk no more. My limbs are weak.

As much as by ignoring I can claim
By close attention would the worst appear
To scrutiny, whose hallowed architrave
Supports the roof of honesty and faith
Unbuttressed by parameters, unborne
Before the swelling wind; my own desires
In cotton wrapping scattered through the park
Display unto all men the ways of love
And yet I am most roundly shunned by all!
By all and sundry, every one who comes
To rest between the walls of haply chores
Or while away the hours; they spurn me all,
As once the king of Crete rebuffed my aunt
And threw her from his chamber as a cat
Ejects a mouse, or other rodent base,

From silver plinth or podium of zinc
Unto th'uncircumcised menageries
Of coma irresistable, of chains
Entitled as the crusty cuckoo clock
Unpanelled. God has given him a son
Whose name shall long ring out amongst the clouds
Where women are forgiven half their sins
And doubly rue the others – as is just –
Till they should lead a purer life up there
Bereft of all save harps and wings – such trash
As poets sang of in the days of yore
When all was jewels glistening on sand,
And cloudless suns shone down upon the napes
And shins of unborn babes, as yet unbarked
In oars of boatlife seized in potent drains
Of malt, or else in sink-brewed Cointreau fine,
Beneath the scurds of aeropoctal lust
Such as is mine (when any lust I feel)
For any wight that haps across my path,
Bravado; kennelled dog of each man's brain
Which seethes in tidal friction as the sea
Engulfs each vomiting sea-mew – aye, and emu,
Ostrich, cassowary, even she ...

Ye gods! The climate is unsuitable,
The sky falls down and suffocates a wight
Who stands unwary; this I like no whit,
As little as the toad the errant stoat
Which lurks yond swamp therein, and sleeps by day
To shriek the night away. This omen do I
Now eschew. But hist! Who hither wends?
'Tis no-one. All my senses are deceived!
I cry alone. And bunting-like I'll fly
From hill to hill in search of nourishment
And solace (in the form of pancakes good)
And other sweet repast.

                           Weep not, sweet maid,
Or if you must, pray do not spoil your gown.

Sir, your kindness is most welcome here,
For many nights I have not met with sleep
Though I have sought him in the halls and streets
And Hypnos' shady bowers ...

                                      But why such sorrow?
The day is bright; see yonder Phoebus' fire!
Come with me! We'll toast a sausage there,
And laugh the day away in meadows green,
Where dormice chatter and the cricket sings.
The hay will keep us warm a-nights, and love
By day shall do the same: ah, bliss!

Aye so!

                Sweet maid, O dearest Lillian
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up
As if to close and be a bud again,
And slip into the bosom of the lake
In white espousal of the grave. My love,
An you'll but walk a little while with me,
I'll show you all the secrets of the heart,
And sweet contentment soon shall be our lot.

(reviving) O Marco, take me hence and succour me
With ardent love – or else a cup of tea!

My love, I shall.